Draco Dormeins Nunquam Furio
by ElusiveEvan
Summary: Slash. So many people... so little time. So much to make up for. When Draco completes his first mission, people will learn: Never anger the sleeping Dragon. Hurt comfort, Angst, Darkfic, violence. A taste of reality. OOTP COMPLIANT!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Yeah, I TOTALLY own this.

NOT.

A/N: Look, this is a special case. It's a rewrite of a story I wrote that was never EVER intended for eyes other than my own. Let me put it this way… I'm not even storing it on this computer for long. It will be updated AS I CAN. Meaning if you like it, favorite it, alert it and you'll see it as it comes. It could be as slow as once every two weeks or as fast as once a day. It may vary and fluctuate, all I know is a little voice is telling me someone out there might like it. And yes, for a couple suggestive scenes, this is rated 18+.

SO DON'T SUE ME MOTHERS.

* * *

The blonde was in complete awe of himself, in as self-absorbed way as usual. The only difference was he had a right to this time. He was currently engaged in something which should be completely out of bounds not to mention impossible for a pureblood; speeding down a muggle road on a muggle vehicle which had been enchanted by a blood traitor. What's more surprising than that was his target destination.

Draco Malfoy was securely on his way to Number Four Privet Drive. Speeding the cycle down the road, he briefly wondered if he could find a way to make the enchantment giving him the ability to drive this thing permanent. It was liberating, almost like flying only stranger, shakier, it was like riding an old Comet that had the speed of a Firebolt.

It was liberating, and exciting. He was truly out on his own. No Snape… no father… no Voldemort… he was _free_ in this moment. A wall of water rose on either side of him as he ran through a puddle which just couldn't have been big enough for that big of a splash. It was almost as though he could forget what he was doing. A Malfoy groveled to no one, thus why he was in this situation; but begging… that was something that Draco was resigned to doing at this point. This was his final choice.

He turned a corner at the bike's prompting and found himself staring down row after row of small, cookie cutter homes. One stood out. This one was also his destination. This one stood out for a multitude of reasons. A new coat of paint, a clean driveway, the eyes of a middleaged woman staring out of the window at him, and most importantly, the form of a tall, gangly boy unconscious on the front lawn.

He pulled into the driveway and kicked the kickstand down. As soon as he stood from the bike all knowledge of how to drive it, how to get where he was, all of it, vanished completely. On the other hand, the feeling he had had in his mind a moment ago—frustration, confusion—remained well intact. Ignoring the muggle eyes peering out at him, the blonde came to the form on the ground. Sure enough, it was his target.

The-Boy-Who-Lived.

Sprawled out on the ground in an exceedingly unbecoming manner, Harry Potter's head rested on a stone, one hand comically planted on the side of his face as if he'd fallen asleep that way, and the other holding a death grip on a bottle. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on there. It was, however, exceedingly troubling. He couldn't continue with any of the plans—his or other peoples'—until Potter slept it off. What a waste of time.

But at the same time… what better way to begin one of his plans… what better way to win Potter's trust? What better way to start on the road to making him believe? When Potter believed, the others would too, and he wouldn't have to deal with anything like the impromptu duel in the House of Black in which he managed to disarm two Weasleys and survive the third. He wouldn't have to deal with Granger's consistent drilling of questions… wouldn't have to dodge them.

He wouldn't have to lie.

Six long years of lies, be it to the public, his father or himself. All of them wasted because of one single fact: he could never lie to Voldemort. One meeting was all it had taken to ruin his façade, to bring the walls crashing down. He was forced to remember that he was NOT a slytherin, he was a failure as a Malfoy and hated the Dark Lord more than he should. And what was more, Voldemort had seen why.

Six years of being a complete ass or pretending to be one.

Six years of regret.

Potter was covered in dirt and blood, Draco discovered as the front door opened, expelling light. Black and blue, too. He had been in an intense physical fight, the kind Wizards rarely had unless they had no wand.

"Get off my lawn this instant!" The man in the doorway was wide, with an unpleasant face. That's not to say that he was ugly… well… he WAS, but the unpleasantness came from the face that the man seemed as if he could never be pleasant a day in his life unless it immediately served his purpose. This was in some ways similar to Draco's own father. He was also a completely expected obstacle, from what Granger had prattled on about. Thus, never one to be outdone by Granger, he had come up with a foolproof method of dealing with the man.

"Move." There was power laced into those words, it was one of the few things he had received from his father that he truly appreciated. The power of Suggestion. Only a minor ability, he knew his commands were laced with magic as if they were spells, and to the weak mind—like a muggle, a squib or a particularly easily controlled wizards who had no proper will (Let's say, half of Voldemort's servants)—they could be irresistible. He also knew that Voldemort had the same ability. He knew it because Voldemort could control his more devoted men completely without the Imperius even when they normally would refuse. The less devoted he either threatened or tortured or whipped out the Imperius. There were some to who his voice was so influential that he controlled every part of their lives. Draco was almost one of those people and he was only in Voldemort's presence for five minutes.

With a shudder, the blonde watched the muggle turn aside, blubbering and attempting a rebuttal. Draco, finding he was going to have trouble, crouched down and brought his hands under the prone form. The first was under the neck and the second under the legs. He quickly found that attempting to balance someone who was taller than you across your arms was a pain. He moved toward the door determinedly and then turned to the muggle as he entered.

"Take me to his room." He had no remorse using this ability on this man, he'd heard enough about him to know he didn't deserve remorse, not even more than Voldemort. With the graying man leading the way, he followed, keeping his body as upright as possible with Potter forcing him to contort in odd ways to climb the narrow stairs. They found a landing soon enough and the muggle pointed toward a door.

Built into the outside of this door were seven locks… a stange piece of plastic over a hole that was like a larger version of the smaller piece of metal on the outside of the door, something Granger had called a Mail-flap, it was used to let something inside without having to open the door. If this had a similar purpose, what did that mean? He quickly realized that the door opened in and after turning the handle just enough—somehow—he kicked the door open.

Now bereft of his burden as Potter laid on his bed, Draco looked for one last thing the mudblood had described; a small, plastic protuberance on the wall, which would flood the room with light. It took him more than two minutes in total, but he found it, wincing as a strange round object flared to life with what seemed like the intensity of a thousand candles.

Wincing against the light he took some time to stare out the dark window until he knew it was safe to look around. Instantly he regretted it. Long frozen heartstrings were tugged as he examined the form on the bed. Dirty, bloody, and battered, Potter was unconscious on the bed, his face red and a fever evident. Dried vomit caked the front of his shirt, almost enough to make Draco gag himself. All in all, the boy was a mess. The source of the blood seemed to be his own nose and a cut down the length of his arm that had caked over and scabbed up. The bare chest was almost completely lost to normally colored skin. Whatever had done this had been brutal, but most likely not wizard. Some of these marks looked as if they were made by neither spell nor hand. A muggle had done this.

That settled it. After checking and finding only dried blood on his own shirt—no vomit, thank Merlin—Draco descended down the stairs. He needed to be perfect here, he needed to be an actor like he had been for years, but now he had to imitate not his father or his father's friends, but the mudblood Granger.

He descended the stairs and turned into the kitchen, having seen the door on his way up. Pushing it open forcefully, he found the family gathered in it, whispering darkly. There sat the man from before, a similarly looking boy Draco's age, and a lanky, angry looking woman who gave off an air of pettiness that reminded him of most of Slytherin's girls. The boy opened his mouth to speak when Draco called, "SHUT UP!"

He stepped forward, mimicking Snape as best as he could as he walked, sneering down at them with every inch of contempt. "I demand to know what caused him to be in this situation, physically. I don't care how he got pissed, I want to know who did that to him. NOW!" Lacing his voice with Command, he stopped short, sneering down at the man whose name he finally remembered from Granger's useless rambling. "Vernon Dursley. You're a big enough man…" he gazed around the room for a sign of abuse. Nothing except… the man's right hand was broken. "Picking on defenseless children is how you get your jollies, isn't it?" He could remember violently his young childhood.

"Now you wait right there," the woman called out, and she sounded so much like his own mother that Draco turned on her and yelled.

"You're not in this! You're next!"

He whipped his wand out, purely a bluff. "Y-You can't do magic outside of school, boy, we know that."

He turned on Dursley. "Do you know that in all technicality, I am now hated by most of the world Potter and I come from? Do you know that in all technicality I am aligned with Potter's worst enemy and Marked as his enemy? That to be completely truthful, I'm already a wanted man? No, I don't think you do." How would they know he was bluffing and hadn't already taken the Mark? "Being expelled," he lifted the wand, "Is a minor care compared to what I already have to deal with."

With a barking laugh, he turned on the boy. "And you, judging by how smug you're looking, you were part of it too, weren't you?" The boy paled immediately and sank back into his seat, so much so that the tipped the chair over backward. "Now, listen here. What did you all use? Was it your hands, did you enjoy the personal feeling of making him hurt by your own two hands?" Draco stalked closer to Vernon, now using every inch of his Snape imitation to his advantage. "No, it's obvious you did use your hands. What about you, fatass? Or were you too scared to even get close?"

There was no damage to the boy's hands, it was obvious to Draco that the marks he had seen were this kid's work. "What did you use? Did Potter have a Beater's Bat on him somehow?" No… it was too… oddly shaped for that. A mumble came from the shaking form on the floor and Draco crouched, his wand still on Vernon as he drew close to the fallen form. "You. Were. Saying?"

"Boxing gloves," the boy announced in complete fear. "I was wearing my gloves!"

Draco was clueless as to what they were.

"Explain what those are, what are they made from?" There were several things that if they got inside a wizard's body could do intense internal damage.

"They protect your hands when you're fighting," the boy offered, seemingly willingly, as if proud of his idea. "Mine are leather, speed gloves."

Leather. Rarely used for magical weapons, and unless enchanted not particularly fatal on its own.

"Fine," Malfoy said, moving over to the kitchen counter and finding a knife. The boy, looking up from his space, whimpered. "Oh relax," the blonde muttered, and began looking for the device Granger had described. And there it was. He moved across to the other side of the room and plunged the knife into the wall, severing the line on the TellPho. That was it right?

Whatever it was, it was now disabled. "Alright now. Tomorrow you'll go on about your days as per usual, and as soon as Potter is awake and not vomiting, we'll be leaving. You can expect no legal issues to come to you as long as you cooperate."

"The same can't be said of you, boy!" Vernon roared. "Breaking and entering, destroying my property, threatening my son with that knife."

"I threatened no one, yet," Draco's eyes narrowed.

"Not the way I saw it."

"Shut up you blubbering moron. I've had enough of people like you." It was true. Crabbe… Goyle… morons, horrible lackeys. What a waste of time. "Woman, what's your name?"

He was willing to be courteous to her.

"Petunia Dursley," she finally answered, seemingly unable to find the gumption to rebut him.

"Alright Mrs. Dursley," he said, attempting to sound half mannerly. As he pocketed his wand he let his thumb touch a spot on the inside of the pocket of his robes, activating a ward that he had been given by the werewolf. "If you could, please find a washcloth and some fresh clothes for Potter."

He was just about to continue when a roar caught his attention. Vernon, charging at him at barely more than a waddle, was looking angry. Slow enough that Draco could avoid him, he was also blundering into a trap that Draco couldn't resist letting him set off. There was a rumble in the kitchen as the man lunged at him, and hit thin air. Suspended for a moment, Vernon was able to see the flash of white as he was flung backward, through the kitchen table. At the same time the Ward established a silencing charm around the house, casting the spell he needed most but had been unable to cast.

Good. He was safely established.

Draco Malfoy had set up base in the home of The-Boy-Who-Lived.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own this. .

--

The first and most difficult task was assessing the amount of damage that the boy had done to himself with the alcohol. A foul smelling substance filled the very bottom of the bottle, a foul smelling substance that Draco, harried, angry and frazzled ingested before tossing the bottle into a trashbin near the bed. He felt an almost instant burn trailing down his throat into his stomach and almost spewed it back out. Alright, so Potter drank harder than him. Draco could deal with that, so long as he didn't find out this was a common thing.

During his long absence while interrogating the muggles, Potter hadn't moved an inch. But something was off. He began to examine the room to try to figure out what was wrong about the situation, but it turned out to be far easier than he'd suspected.

Potter's eyes were half-open, and his wand was oh-so-discreetly pointed at Draco. Draco noticed this a little too late to explain himself and had to think fast. There was only thing that would stop the spell from going off and the Ministry coming down on them like a ton of bricks. His warded robes. He pulled an arm free, and as he did Harry acted, dropping his feigned sleep and waving his wand. "_Locomotor Mortis!" _

The robes absorbed the spell as Draco tossed them on Potter's hands. Draco found the drunken Potter sitting up. Using his robes on the wand still he yanked, easily disarming the far-past inebriated boy. "Careful, Potter. You'll put somebody's eye out with that." Shortly after this statement, a fist connected with his right eye and he recoiled. Mentally and bodily hurting, Draco collapsed, clutching the robes with Harry's wand in them securely as he hit the wall.

"M-Malfoy," The-Boy-Who-Lived slurred, "Come to try to k-kill me in my sleep? Make it look like an accident?"

The kick aimed at Draco's skull flew well wide and the Malfoy boy took this moment to grab Potter by the ankle and take him off balance. There was a crash as Saint Potter hit the ground hard, and Draco moved, abandoning the robes and wand to plant a knee in the boy's back. This wasn't particularly satisfying for him, in fact it was torture. "I'm not here to kill anyone," Draco said, as calmly as possible, wrangling the drunk's hands behind him and pinning them to his back. "I was sent to get you to safety. The Dark Lord's men, they could be here any time now, they could be coming up the steps even as we speak."

"What are you playing at?" Harry spat from the ground, twisting, kicking, bucking, but unable to do anything of use. "Do you think I'm a moron, snake?"

Draco felt anger well up over anything that might have been their naturally and increased his hold. "Don't… call me a snake."

"You're a snake, scum, probably a Death Eater by now!"

Violently he stood, pulling Potter onto his back. Knee planted firmly in Potter's gut he kneeled again, pulling up his right sleeve. "Does this look like someone who Voldemort has soiled?" Potter looked for a moment like he would speak, and then suddenly spat. Draco froze in surprise for a moment and then snarled landing in his one and only punch, to Harry's jaw. The boy groaned out loud and began to thrash. "You're in no shape to fight a pointless battle! Now will you just_ stop?_"

He did not stop.

"I've just come from the Headquarters, on Black's motorbike." This caused a delay in Harry's thrashing as he gazed up at Malfoy with eyes burning with hatred, emerald flame. Normally this would have been enough to make Draco back up, but it wasn't this time. Determination stayed in firm control. "Granger was prattling on about what that fat toad did to your hand during detentions, and when the Weasleys weren't trying to duel me, they were pranking me, in any way they could. And my cousin Nymph, she was there too, knocking things over and worrying about you, when she's not swooning over the werewolf who's about this close to coming and getting you himself, Dumbledore be damned."

"You're lying, you great git!"

Almost without warning Draco's sleeves caught flame. He was thrown by an invisible force against the wall, and this gave Potter time to dive for Draco's robes. "The werewolf says he hopes you forgive him for holding you back!"

Harry froze in mid movement, turning his head to gaze at Draco like some sort of machine, his whole body from the neck down still like a demented marionette. "What?"

"Look in my robes, right pocket. You'll find a letter from him for you." There was a flare of hope. If Potter took the letter and read it, it would only strengthen his case. Cement it, probably. There it was. Harry was reaching into his robes. Draco put out the flame at the end of his sleeves quickly, wishing he could cast. There, he noted, the Gryffindor had found it.

Harry Potter unrolled the parchment and began to read.

_Harry, _

_I know this must be hard for you, and I appreciate that it is. I have a lot to make up for when it comes to you, I've realized. Where was I the first thirteen years of your life? What happened to my decision the day that your parents died, to help you through your life when I got back on my feet? I got too caught up in getting back on my feet and realizing I couldn't to remember it. _

_There's no more time for my platitudes. Someone has shown up at your doorstep on a motorcycle whom you never expected to see standing there. Someone who you may have already tried to jinx, in which case I am currently running interference with aurors outside your door, more likely than not. _

_The reasons for this are as follows: _

_He, like you, needs to go into hiding, immediately. Second, there is only one person in the Order who could have driven that motorcycle, and no one wants to see Tonks on the muggle news. Not only is the boy able to drive this motorcycle, but he is not a member of the order, and thus, sadly, expendable. I hate to hear that word used for a child, and still hate that Dumbledore used it. But in a way, I think his point is that Draco is not vital to the current plan. _

_The Order is broken, Harry. Our members have fled to different continents, and the Order has broken into seven pieces. This one is in the Headquarters and is run by Dumbledore. Kingsley is currently in the capital of New York, a state over in the US with Mundungus Fletcher, Dedalus Diggle and many others. Molly Weasley and her children have moved to Egypt, along with another portion of the Order that she will oversee in __Africa__. The day after I write this, I will be expected to leave in the evening for Australia in a moderately sized group where I will meet with a contact the Order has had in Australian Ministry for some time. My group and I will be waiting before we leave at the muggle motel Draco has been instructed to bring you to. _

_I cannot, Harry, explain to you the intricacies and delicacies of the circumstances that lead to Draco Malfoy being housed at Headquarters, nor can I explain his past to you, as he explained it to me one evening. All I can tell you is that we have received report from him that Voldemort's newest servant is coming after you tomorrow morning. She _can_ reach through the blood protections, Harry, and will. From my own personal perspective from speaking to him, Draco Malfoy can be trusted implicitly, but if you want to believe that he cannot be, then logically you must assume that he will do what he can to save his own life at the very least. I assure you this is only to accommodate your feelings that I say this. _

_I trust the boy. _

_Harry, if I find that you are not at the motel by evening tomorrow, I will look for you. If anything happens, you will be sure I will find Voldemort's new puppet. I will remove them from the equation for good. _

_Remus _

He closed the parchment. Mind shooting drunkenly through the past while, he found the clock.

11:30 PM.

"Then," he started, as the pain seemed to become clearer to him, as adrenaline rushed through his system, sobering him up. "What do we do?"

"Come to your senses, have you?" Draco asked, drawling.

"Don't just stand there and _taunt_ me," Harry snarled. "What is next?"

"Pack, and quick. We need to be out of here in the next hour or two."

Harry looked around the room. He took it all in; Hedwig in her cage, his trunk at the bottom of his bed, completely packed but for the parchment lying on his desk and a few clothes in his dresser.

"Alright," Harry said, decidedly, retrieving his wand from the ground. Draco tightened his grip on his own. "Just got to get some clothes from my dresser and—"

"Sit down, Potter" Draco ordered, "Your knees are shaking." Harry looked down and saw that this was all decidedly so. He hesitated taking any orders from Draco, and wondered why he felt so compelled to sit. "Shit," Draco spat. "I forgot..."

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, as he sat.

"The Command. If I don't phrase things in the form of a question when I'm angry magic laces into my commands, and attempts to influence the person I'm talking to. If I'm calm, it doesn't matter, I can control myself. It's a lot like accidental magic when I'm angry. I didn't mean to do it, Potter, so will you please not look at me that way?" Harry nodded, but continued to glare.

Draco took a moment of silence, in an attempt to wrangle in wandering emotions, anger, fear, worry. He walked a light step or two toward the dresser, as if testing the waters. "Alright, now…" he pulled open drawer after drawer suddenly after kicking the lid to Harry's trunk open, and just poured each in. "Not to be so haphazard, but we've got to move."

Harry nodded, the glare replaced by a look of confusion. It had seemed as if Malfoy was apologetic for a moment. Surely not. Harry gazed at Draco as the blonde attempted to shut the trunk a moment later. What could Draco's past have to say that would be not only positive, but convince Remus that the boy was trustworthy. He'd had him in class, Remus knew what the boy was.

A snake.

But he wasn't acting much like a snake at the moment, was he? Harry tried to imagine the boy he had met in Madam Malkin's robe shop before his first year and found he could hardly picture the kid. Time seemed to have zip by except for those moments of extreme danger when he had nearly died. Time seemed to be moving quickly, fleetingly and leaving him in the cold. _Cold as death,_ his mind whispered, as he fought down the feeling of being restrained by the werewolf as Sirius fell behind the veil.

Finally Draco seemed to have some success, judging by the exclamation of 'Ha!' and the way the boy stood. This shook Harry from a trance so that he wondered when Draco lifted Hedwig's cage and placed it on the top of the trunk, before reaching into his pocket. "What are you doing?" Harry asked, becoming nervous. Two small, round beads rolled from Draco's hand a moment later, vanishing on impact with the cage and the trunk.

The cage and trunk went with them.

"Where did you send them?" Harry inquired, almost desperately, defensively. "Where?"

"Relax, Potter," Draco said, serenely, and Harry felt no pull to do so. "I've sent them to the muggle inn. The werewolf will know it means it's going well here."

"Don't call him that, please." Harry was shocked at his own restraint. They were almost being civil to each other. "'The Werewolf', it sounds like you're talking down about him. Why not just call him Professor Lupin?"

There was silence in the room for a moment as Draco contemplated how to reply, and Harry waited for the resulting snide comment, slur or insult. "It's a bad habit," Draco admitted. "I'll try." Stunned into clarity even in his drunken state, Harry had to acknowledge that Draco had just promised to do something Harry asked. He also had to admit he now suspected something bad was afoot here. His trust level in the boy had gone down. Draco was being… too nice.

Harry tightened his grip on his wand in reaction

"Well, now we've got one more problem." Draco said. "You."

"Me?" Harry trilled. "What is wrong with me?"

"That's what I'd like to know!" Draco exclaimed. "Your accidental magic should have kicked the living hell out of those two oafs when they were doing this to you." Struck cold again, Harry looked around for an immediate change of subject.

"I won't talk about that," Harry replied finally.

Growling in something akin to irritation, Draco threw his hands up. "You will soon, Potter. Something is seriously wrong here. Anyway, you're drunk, you're skinny as a rail and beaten up, possibly very sick and you look like crap. Driving you from here to the motel, even this late at night is dangerous and will attract a lot of attention." Draco reached over to the stack of clothes on top of the dresser. "Get a shower if you can, and in the meantime, I'll try to find something suitable for consumption in the icebox."

He waited until Harry had managed to make it down the hall into the bathroom before descending the stairs, worried about how long it had taken the boy and how many times he'd had to hold himself up on the nearby walls. The Malfoy heir entered the kitchen in a state of turmoil, but then again, he had been that way all night. The family of three was gathered around their table, mutter darkly to one another about "freaks" and "Freaky Little Ways." Draco attempted not to take offence.

"Potter and I will be out of the way in an hour, if all goes well. Since he obviously hasn't eaten properly in a week or so, we're taking some food in order to make sure he can function for the rest of the day."

"Just get it over with and be done with it. We couldn't care less what you do with the boy, so long as we don't have to deal with him again." These were the famous Harry Potter's relatives, huh? Something would have to be done about them. In the wizarding world, stories were told to most children from birth—with one spin or the other—about the boy who lived and what he'd done. The darker families painted him as a spoiled pureblood baby who lived like a princely muggle because he'd defied the Dark Lord and committed an evil against the purebloods. The Light families liked to imagine that he was some sort of legendary hero, living safely and happily in the muggle world between school visits. In recent years the picture of a spoiled brat had been painted throughout the both sides.

Draco noted that all three were so far from the truth, that it was almost disgusting. This heroic figure was a boy who seemed to be a starving alcoholic whose relatives beat him. This was neither the princely life of the Dark families' stories, nor the happy peaceful recuperation that the Light families told. This was the life of a boy whose home life was not so different from Draco's own, which was in and of itself a bad sign. Draco's first act was going to have to be making sure the boy kicked his drinking habit unless it was a formal event where wine was being served.

Food was easy to come by in this icebox storing copious amounts of sweets things that he didn't recognize but could smell the sweetness radiating off of. For the Dursleys it was torture watching this boy find and butter several pieces of bread, as well as boiling tea on their stove—once he'd wheedled the method of turning it on from them—and they weren't taking too kindly to it. Vernon, for his part, seemed fit to burst. Though Draco mused to himself that he might always look like that. Draco finally found what looked like sliced ham and brought a piece out for each of them.

The tea went off just as Harry descended the stairs, slowly, slowly. To Harry it was just one more odd sign out of many. He didn't know what to think. Either he was about to find a Dursley making them tea, or he was about to find Malfoy doing so. He didn't know which was more ludicrous and upsetting an idea. Draco for his part, heard the sound of the steps creaking and turned. He heard the sound of the floor being hit, and waited, counting the seconds between Harry getting to the bottom of the stairs and Harry getting into the kitchen.

Thirty seconds.

Merlin, the boy was worse off than Draco had thought. When the kitchen door opened it was to reveal that every step seemed to place a look of intense pain on Harry's face, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Draco marched over to Harry near the kitchen door, and placed a plate of ham and buttered bread and a glass of water in his hands.

"Eat, it's the only thing I could figure out in this blasted muggle kitchen." Draco stomped away, irritated and worried. Harry waited for that feeling he'd received, a tug on his mind commanding him to do so. None came, Malfoy seemed to be controlling himself. The Gryffindor soon decided that food wasn't a horrible idea, as his stomach had settled. He knew his fever hadn't broken, yet. Across the room he saw Malfoy eating the same thing in precisely measured bites, still managing to seem formal with his clothing wrinkled and standing in the Dursleys' kitchen.

It only took Potter a couple of moments to down the whole lot, Draco noticed with equal parts disgust and fascination. He chased it down with the tea, leaning back against the kitchen door as if too weak to stand. Draco didn't consider this unlikely, because of this he ate at a pace that was—for him and the manners instilled in him since birth—painfully fast. It wasn't much to finish off the measly excuse for a meal he could muster up. "Alright, we're leaving now." He announced, as Harry struggled to move toward the sink. He stepped in front of the boy, seizing the plate and cup and placing them on the ground nearby. Petunia gave an affronted sound that he ignored, and Harry stooped to reach for them.

Puzzled and annoyed, Draco flicked Potter on the forehead and nodded out of the door, earning a glare from the Gryffindor. Begrudgingly Harry opened the kitchen door and exited. He was a bit quicker down the hall this time, and Draco found himself nonetheless worried and irritated. "Alright, our ride is out in the driveway." Harry was, by the porch light, treated to the sight of a motorbike with a sidecar. The bike's license plate read, "BckNBlck."

"We have your Godfather to thank for this. If he hadn't left this behind where Dumbledore could get his hands on it…" Harry noted Malfoy's strange intonation when he said 'get his hands on it.' Then it registered. This was Sirius' motorbike, and the only one that could ride it was… Malfoy?


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own this. .

A/N: Well, I think I best address something because I've noticed it affects this chapter more than any other. I am indeed American. I write all of my HP fanfiction in UK standard English though, SO most of the misspellings you might see here aren't really... just deviances and differences from American standard English. I write in it a lot anyway, and sometimes speak in it, so I figured I'd make it official.

--

"Potter," Malfoy warned as he sat down on the bike and turned his head to look at Harry, who had finally managed to bring himself to do so. "I am the FrontQuarter." Harry, who was just getting used to the idea of this proximity to the Malfoy heir, just getting used to the intensity of his distrust, the awkwardness of the situation, and his own revulsion and at the same time curiosity that their immediacy brought forth, was struck silent.

The FrontQuarter is a part of the broomstick that Qudditch players are taught to grab onto when about to go into a fast—and usually discouraged—dive akin to the Wronski Feint at a moment's notice and generally it was implicated that they sure as hell better hold on. Harry thought the last part to be the general picture of the message. This was what struck him silent, and silly too, for that matter. The thought of holding onto any bit of Malfoy for anything, even safety, was disturbing. Were he in a clearer mind, he would wonder how he'd gotten into his room or for that matter, back into the house he'd been locked out of. _At least they'd let me get away with my prize,_ Harry thought. "Fine," he responded finally as the motorbike started. He was interested… how was it that Malfoy knew how to operate a muggle vehicle to begin with?

Now came the odd feeling of trying to find a place to put a hand on the boy. He reached out for the shoulder to steady himself, and found that wasn't… so bad. The fair-haired Malfoy gave an exasperated sigh and reached up, seizing either hand. This made Harry's heart pound quicker, expecting an attack he was at present not suited to handle. His hands were suddenly displaced, landing somewhere near his ribs. "Now hold tight," Malfoy chided, and the moment Harry tightened up—though he was struck uncomfortable as hell—he gunned the engine, and the force pushing him backward made Harry hold on all the tighter.

To Harry it was as if he was flying on a badly unbalanced Firebolt. He tried to fight the general feeling of cloudiness in his head for once, trying to examine how he felt about the situation. There was elation. Fresh air, he was almost as free as if he were flying. There was disgust, distrust for the snake being close enough to him to sink its fangs into him. There was curiosity as to why these two emotions were not stronger, almost as if they were hidden by something. _Probably had too much to drink, _he decided begrudgingly. He was surprisingly clearheaded and had the adrenaline to thank for washing most of his issues out of his system with the alcohol.

Of course, there was another option, that he simply didn't find Malfoy to be as bad a person as he once had.

From that point on he tried to ignore the contents of his head. Malfoy was travelling at insanely fast speeds, speeds that Harry knew were dangerous beyond all recognition and should have the police coming down upon them, not to mention them wrecking into the back of vehicles. Neither was the case. It seemed they always found the safest way through the sea of vehicles, almost as if by _magic_. That settled it. There were more enchantments than mere flight upon the vehicle and he was damn curious to find out what those were, exactly.

Harry Potter was a lot of things. To say he was a drunkard and a slob would as a rule be considered preposterous, even to his enemies. Draco, as he let the enchantment's magic guide his arms, was free to let his mind decide that it was certainly looking as if the boy had become or was on the road to becoming each. His shape was very unsightly, and the were—Remus, the ex-professor had said to call him—would dislike the sight of how bad off Potter had become. Draco didn't find it particularly alluring either.

Try as he might he couldn't deny that there were some particularly distressing emotions running around his mind. They were feelings he had expected, but found himself disdaining to an extent nevertheless. It was because he couldn't keep up the shields. At age fourteen, Draco had attempted something no one had ever succeeded, and he nearly had. Abandoning his true studies—and while his grades may not have suffered for this he truly had—he had attempted to teach himself Occlumency. How?

Blackmailing his father's most dangerous and least trustworthy ally with information he never should have used. What no one outside the Malfoy family knew is that the Dark Lord had dissension within his own ranks, a small group of lower grade Death Eaters that the Dark Lord never particularly met with, lead by two members of his inner circle, one a moderate Occlumens who his Lord had no reason to distrust, and the other, possibly the greatest Occlumens of all time. This man's name was Avery. He was but a year younger than their Lord and had been at his side all of his life, only visibly faltering during the Dark Lord's time of disposal. He had denied willingly working for Voldemort.

Avery had had a plan that Draco knew because his father had been part of it. In one foul move; a long, long ritual—things that no one had used when the Dark Lord had been at Hogwards—learned from Avery's grandfather, who had served under Grindelwald in his old age, Avery had planned to steal Voldemort's intense magical stores, and then lock him up permanently until he learned the source of the Dark Lord's apparent immortality, while capturing the title of Dark Lord for himself.

His blackmail had been stupid, he knew now. The only reason he had survived threatening to leak word to Macnair at the age of fourteen, was because of his name and his gumption. Avery had actually found something admirable within him. Draco had at the time, thought it a good thing. Now he wasn't sure it was something he cared to remember. A ton of books on Occlumency, some handwritten by Avery himself found their way to him throughout his fourth year. For two years now, he had been working and nearly pulled it off; a solid shield around his inner mind to help fend off the growing confusion of life.

Draco was jerked back into reality as the enchantment faltered, meaning there was some source of magic nearby, and to top that off, it was a powerful one, meaning not residual energy. It could mean only one thing; wizard was in the vicinity that wasn't on the bike. He felt the spell take solid control again and urged it onward with his mind and his emotions, looking over his shoulder to see if Potter noticed.

Saint bloody Potter's face was contorted, and for one appalling moment, Draco thought the Gryffindor would vomit. That fear quickly passed as he saw the look on Potter's face. It was pure, untainted pain. He gunned it, as he considered whether or not he could risk this.

Suddenly a flash of light flew over his head. It was green. Punching the button immediately as it passed by him, the bike suddenly turned nearly transparent, and so did its riders. The second button pushed brought him airborne. A spell came flying at them that Draco attempted to manually dodge, though he had not enough time. There was a sickening crack as the spell hit Potter, that emanated from somewhere on his midriff. Draco didn't know, didn't want to know what it was.

Harry, for his part, reeled in pain and held onto Malfoy for dear life. His whole world was rocked to the core as he felt the snap and pain ran through his body from the midriff to toe, back to his head. They _were_ flying, and quickly now. His head spun as details about the situation vanished behind the veil of pain, and it was all he could do to focus on keeping hold of Malfoy, forgetting perhaps, exactly who the form in front of him was. Then something else happened. He, Malfoy and the bike, suddenly turned upside down. A spell or enchantment held them in place but it didn't stop gravity from pulling, sending fresh waves of pain through his body as something green flew by them. A moment later something else hit, this resulting in another snap within Harry's body, and Malfoy cursed. And so vanished Harry completely into the world of his pain, so completely that the rest of the journey was lost to him.

He was jolted back into reality an hour later. Malfoy was standing from the uncloaked bike, the alley they were in was dark and wreaked of a trap. To his surprise, when Malfoy stood, he didn't go for his wand but instead turned around and looked into Harry's eyes, calling loudly, "Potter, answer me, damn it!" He sounded as if he'd been trying to get Harry's attention for a long time, then. "Come on, you have to say something." Harry couldn't react for some reason. "Come on Harry!"

Jolting slowly back into a clearer head than he remembered leaving—and he _had_ left it—that was only crowded by pain, he registered what Malfoy had called him; not Potter, but Harry. "Where are we?" he finally managed, confused and nervous. He wanted his head _completely_ clear in this situation. He wish he could cast or something.

"Behind the motel, someone made a deal with the guy running it. As soon as we pick up the key to the room, he's going to put the bike in the back office." Draco now proffered his right hand to Potter. There was all the hesitation of a wounded lion—to the pleasure of Draco's irony centre—and it was all Draco could do to wait. Finally, seeming to deem him untrustworthy, Potter struggled and rose to his feet on his own. Sighing in defeat, Draco backed off. _Did I expect anything different from the hard-headed lion? _

He turned and strode off; throwing his hands up in aggravation so quickly that Harry nearly went for his wand. Harry for his part, wanted to smack himself in the forehead. Draco Malfoy was sulking. Try as he might, he couldn't keep his normal pace and fell behind Malfoy quickly. In his haze of irritation, Malfoy didn't notice and kept walking. Grunting against the pain, Harry continued the trek. The edge of the building wasn't that far away. By the time he made it, of course, Malfoy stood waiting for him. While still looking huffy, there was something that Harry might mistake for remorse there. "Sorry Potter," Malfoy said, restrainedly. "I forgot." There was an uncomfortable pause before the blonde gestured to a door. We're ground floor, room 10."

The motel, Harry notice, was small, two floors, and maybe thirty rooms on each floor, curling around in an U-shape. In the middle was the parking lot they stood in, a gated area around a swimming pool, and several plastic chairs lining he wall in between the doors to the first floor rooms. Harry followed Malfoy—who moved at a much slower pace—toward the room at the end of the wall closest to them. At this slower pace, Harry noticed that Malfoy seemed like a vial ready to burst from being overfull. He was clearly fighting hard to not break into a quicker movement, and Harry wondered why.

Until his memories came rushing back.

Shuddering and panting he stopped suddenly, leaning against the brick wall as he realized the amount of pain going through his ribs and back. Malfoy noticed and turned back. Fighting off the urge to match the blonde's gaze he stumbled forward, trying to ignore the pain that wracked his body. Room ten wasn't far from the front desk, but it felt like forever to Harry.

His companion reached it and slid the key in. Without carefully considering all of the possible results of his action, Malfoy threw open the door, only to be struck down a moment later. A man fell upon him, snarling, wand drawn and at Malfoy's throat. A call from the back of the room scolded the man, calling Malfoy "friend." That could only mean one thing.

Death Eaters.

Woefully unprepared, Harry drew his wand and began to back away. A face appeared in the doorway, and he stopped. Remus Lupin stood over the two untangling forms as Harry gazed at him. He didn't meet the professor's eyes. He wasn't sure what he might say, do, or feel if he did. "Come on, Harry, get inside." Hesitation broke against weariness, and he stumbled into the room, not missing Remus's worried look.

Snarling the moment the door was shut, Malfoy stood tall and pointed at one of the beds. "Lay down before you fall over, Potter." Harry felt a sneer rise to his face before he realized the boy was not insulting him but chiding him into taking care of himself, and whatsmore, the sneer was directed at a man in the back of the room, the man who had knocked Malfoy down. Harry wandered to the bed, wondering absentmindedly if Malfoy had used this Command on him. He sat, but did not lay down.

Malfoy gazed about the room regally. His first mission complete, he found a chair at the table in the room and sat, glaring at the form in the back. This form stood up and moved toward Harry.

Harry could now see the man. He was about Remus' age without as many grey hairs, and a long, thin scar moving from his hairline to at least the visible part of his neck, and likely beyond on the left side. There was something about this man that reminded him of Sirius, but at the same time, of Remus. Green eyes pierced his own green, and chestnut brown hair framed the face of a warrior. The more he examined the man, the more his comparisons became between he and Moody. Harry could see a slight haze over the man's face, though he didn't know what it meant, it was obviously magical.

"The boy's drunk," the man declared in an Australian accent. There was American in there, too. "Gonna have a nasty hangover in the morning, mate. That's what ya get for underage drinking unsupervised of course. I'd know, I got it plenty myself" And then very suddenly the joking vanished and he became once more like Moody in body and—expect for having both of his—eyes.

Remus opened his mouth to speak but this man raised a hand, and the professor stopped.

"Off with your shirt, boy," Harry blinked. "Come on, now!" There was an order in there, for sure. Despite everything about him saying to deny it, Remus' curious gaze was as good as a second command. With two people requesting it, for seemingly a good reason, he could hardly ignore this. Begrudgingly he lifted his shirt over his head, and heard several people hiss in response. He cried out in pain before the shirt ever unclouded his view as someone reached out and prodded his side, then his back.

"Broken ribs, been some damaged to his back, possibly his spine, broken ankle," T_hat was why, _Draco thought, "and he's bled recently from at least twenty places. Someone did a number on you boy." The man suddenly drew his wand and thrust it at Harry's skull, spitting out a spell. A slip of paper shot from the end of it into his outstretched hand. Despite the spell having come out sounding like a curse, Harry figured it was medical magic, by the fact that he was unharmed. "And he's got a very _very_ minor concussion, meaning the only reason he made it here is because of his magic."

"We got attacked on the way over," Harry said, before an absolute roar of anger overtook his ears.

"Bullshit," Draco cried, standing. "You took two spells, maybe they're to blame for the back and the ribs, but you know _well_ who did this to you, and it's not right! Open your damn mouth and tell them!" The blonde's hair flew wildly as accidental magic began to seize him, something that he had thought his father had beaten out of him at age four. A pot of coffee began to boil on the dresser, Remus stepped back as if in pain and even the man bent over Harry recoiled. The others in the room moved to one side to avoid it. "In the Wizarding world they'd be executed at dawn by hanging or curse, at least two of them!"

Shocked by the torrent of emotion being put out, Harry couldn't even form anger. "What?"

"It's his bloody bull of an uncle and his cousin who're doing it," Draco said, pointing at Harry. "You were about to let them go free! Are you stupid?"

"Shut up," Harry managed to say, gathering his anger.

"Now, boys, be quiet," Remus finally said. "Both of you." There was a silent pause.

"There's nothing we can do but let him heal, I know none of you have any medical talent, and the most I can do is set bones, medic stuff. I'm just someone that makes someone feel better as they die." Remus nodded in reluctance to the man bent over Harry in examination.

"With the current state of things…" Remus looked ruefully down. "We can't send for help from anyone. I'll owl Dumbledore when we get where we're going though."

"No!" Harry almost lunged off the bed, but was held still by his examiner. "Dumbledore doesn't deserve to know _shit_ about me." The snarling Potter seemed to put a damper on the dingy room.

"Look," Draco said, softly as possible. "I'm sorry for pushing you. But they need to come to justice, violently."

"What would you know about Justice?" Harry spat.

"He'd know that he delivered his father and mother to the Ministry by hand one morning," Remus answered.

"I'd also know what it feels like to be in your position." Draco admitted quietly.

There was a reigning silence in the room once more. Finally the man drew back from Harry. "No more time for any of this," he grunted gruffly, reminding Harry more than ever of Moody. He drew from his pocket a wand which he brought out. "I'll do my best for your ribs, boy, but it won't be pretty." Thirty seconds of mind numbing pain later, the wand was away.

His ribs newly wrapped and set, Harry felt with every breath the constriction the wraps lay on him. Laid slowly back by the man over him, Harry tried to keep himself from becoming too disoriented. Remus approached, almost bashfully, as if afraid of what Harry might say or do and managed to get a set of covers around him.

"Harry," Remus said. "We're going to have to go now."

"This is true," the green-eyed man said, reaching into his pocket for something else. "Hurry up everyone."

"I've got to get moving with Auror Dearth now."

Harry nodded. So this man was an Australian Auror?

"Jayden Dearth, at your service," the gruff man said to him, as a manner of parting. Odd, Harry decided, since that was usually only said at the outset of a conversation or meeting. "Now move it everyone." The group gathered around him (some odd ten witches and wizards) and place a finger on the object in his hand. "1…2…"

"Take care of each other, you're the only ones who can," Remus called.

"3."

The group as a whole twitched, paused, and then vanished into light.

Head swirling, Harry gazed at Draco Malfoy, who was wandering over to the other side of his own bed. From there he found Hedwig's cage against a wall and lifted it up, setting it on the dresser beside another caged owl, a regal barn owl that Harry figured was his. After rummaging in another trunk lying between the dresser and table, he secured a couple of treats, which he gave to each bird, promising them real food soon.

Harry hadn't expected that kind of thing from a Malfoy of any sort. Malfoy was no longer showing particular fury, concern or weariness, just a cold, ice mask of a face, as if he had no emotion whatsoever. It was similar to the face worn by Snape some days. The blonde turned toward Harry and announced, "I am going to sleep and we can speak about all of this in the morning." Without another word, he moved toward his own bed and slid into it, closing his eyes and turning out the light closest to his bed after a moment of looking for a light switch, and finding a knob that he soon learned could be turned instead of flicked.

Harry reached over, slowly, and found his own light, then turned it off. Without a word—even though he thought he should have one on his lips—he closed his own eyes.

Draco woke first.

It was disorienting, after having spent so much time under the wards of Grimmauld Place, to wake up without that weight on him. He rolled over, found with disgust he was not in pajamas, but yesterday's clothing. Turning, he also found himself in an unfamiliar bed. The memories of the night prior hit him as he turned his gaze on Potter. Something radiated from deep within him, intensified by the nothingness that was accentuated by the fog of the day's first waking moments.

Pity.

Pity filled every bit of him, as the pool fought hard to freeze into a box of ice around his mind. The moments of morning were his worst enemies. He was most honest with himself when he was still under the slight haze of sleep. And it was telling him he pitied the form on the bed across the room more than anything he had ever pitied. Malfoys weren't supposed to have pity—if they had need of it, they were weak; this was Lucius Malfoy's saying—but he had long broken that and many of his father's other rules. Draco shuddered and wished desperately to trap it behind the ice walls that had not yet formed that morning, showing the incompleteness of his training as blood shows a wound.

Or bruises showed a beating.

Potter had literally changed skin colour in some parts of his body that were currently visible due to the state of the sheets he had been lying under the night prior, and the lack of a shirt. The Gryffindor's chest was rife with dark, nasty bruises, so much so that it looked almost as if he had been wearing a purple chest plate. It was only in this half light of the morning that Draco noticed another thing unnecessarily familiar to him. Marked on Potter's left shoulder was what looked distinctly like a round burn, like the tip of a wand searing the skin.

Again he waited for this sentimental mindset to disappear, shaking his head roughly. Potter was skinny as a rail, and had his ribs not been set, they would have been clear as hell. He lay there and continued to stare as thought after thought rose up within him, and suddenly he found his physical body not reacting to them, at his own whim. He pushed and felt the glacial barriers rise around his mind as his defences became established clearly. The one crack in the ice fortress was used as a slot to deposit some painful memories that had gotten loose in his mind.

The crack sealed. When he came to himself, he sighed.

At that exact moment, he caught sight of green.

Potter was awake.

Turning away quickly—he would be blushing were he to let his emotions get the better of him—Draco stood and moved to his trunk.

"Your eyes," Harry whispered.

Malfoy turned back to him, as Harry gazed intently at him. "What?" There was a strange lack of emotion on Malfoy's face, something he hadn't had when he'd erupted at Harry the evening before.

"Your eyes were so focused."

At that moment Harry tried to sit up, and cried out as pain ran through his body. His back cried out the loudest, screaming its protest through the nerves of his body. He didn't want to move, the pain shooting out like a spider web from some point just above the small of his back. He promptly fell onto the pillow, as he registered the other pains he had been receiving as well.

"So much for seeing you on your feet," Malfoy muttered, almost resignedly. Harry was still confused. Why would Malfoy actually care so much? "I'm showering," the blonde added, shaking his head as if as confused as Harry before vanishing into the adjoining bathroom.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own this.

A/N: I also might add that generally, when you see Draco called "Malfoy" you're likely seeing things from Harry's point of view, and vice versa, if people have been confused. Though... Draco seems to be loosening up.

--

Inhale. Pain wracking his body. Exhale. Pain wracking his body.

The thought of rolling over was beyond him. He heard from the bathroom, an exclamation. "SHIT!" There was a series of small thumps and then Malfoy reemerged from the bathroom. To Harry's intense discomfort, Malfoy was wrapped in a towel, and soapy hair piled on top of his head, bringing water and soap down the boy's back. Harry shuddered, aware it wasn't exactly cold. MAlfoy crouched by his trunk and began rummaging as if in desperate need of something.

Then he withdrew the vial. With quick, dripping strides, Malfoy closed the distance and handed the vial to him. It had taken Harry some time to gather the strength needed to reach it. "Wh-what is it?"

"It's for the pain. It's only a temporary block in case you need to get up and moving. It's the only one I have so I suggest you keep it for when you need it." Turning, Malfoy seemed to have another thought, because he added, "When I get out, I've got a wound cleaning potion for your back." Quickly enough, Malfoy was gone, back into the bathroom. Harry looked down. Where he'd been lying the night before was a nasty concoction of blood and something darker. Under normal circumstances, it might have induced vomiting on sight.

But he was in far too much pain. And come to that, he was incredibly hungry anyway. Harry sighed and gazed into the potion. It was a soft blue, with the whirl of red inside of it, like eddies. It did indeed look like a simple pain potion. He didn't know still, if he trusted it. He either had to accept that Malfoy was—relatively—good, or distrust it. He barely remembered the words Malfoy had spoken to him last night, about having shared a similar experience compared to Harry's.

Harry didn't know about that.

If Death Eaters attacked, he had no choice. He would have to take the potion and run. What Malfoy didn't realize—because of Harry's bluff during the beginning of their meeting—was that Harry now had reason to be scared for his life for the first time since the Graveyard. He had only not been exposed in his bedroom because Malfoy had thrown his robes on top of Harry's wand.

Harry Potter had become… a squib.

His wand was dead wood in his hands, his hair had begun to grow, something that had never happened before past a certain age. He'd gained another inch in height and found himself a little slower than he'd always been. These were things that had never happened to him. To add evidence onto it, in Harry's mind, Vernon had had no problem getting a few shots in. Last summer, one touch, the only time he'd put a hand on Harry for two years had left him reeling from accidental magic.

Vernon had torn through him for a good two minutes before he left Harry there. He had been unharmed. Harry, unbeknownst to Vernon who had done it in a fit of rage—not any sort of ritualistic abuse, which had ended when Harry had become old enough to bite Vernon and draw blood—had been left lying out perfectly for Dudley. And it was a Dudley, who had had great need of a punching bag.

Harry wasn't about to explain any of this to Malfoy. Malfoy who hated anyone who wasn't pureblood. Not only was Harry a half-blood, but now a squib? How quickly would Malfoy kill him? Harry drew his dead wand from his pocket, hoping for just the faintest feel of magic. Nothing.

Alone, unprotected with only Malfoy's word and Remus' last hasty goodbye as to Malfoy's trustworthiness… Harry was definitely scared. A single Death Eater attack would leave him dead. With a rush of emotion like he hadn't had for a long time, Harry found that he decidedly didn't want to die. It was whirring and growing inside of him, a panic. He didn't know when any and all attention to the outside world vanished but it had.

All that mattered was that he continued breathing. Breath was coming jagged and harshly. He had to focus on breathing. Death was right there in front of him, any moment now, coming to rip him apart. Pain was dimly registered, and he knew in some part of him, he was trying to run. Screaming came next in his own mind as he felt something solid, possibly under him. Nothing made sense. He just needed to run. He felt wetness on his lips, and slowly the world came into focus around him. He heard a voice speaking.

"I'm sorry, he's just— he… he's had a bad time recently, you'll have to forgive him." Malfoy seemed to be speaking to someone. Bright sunlight glared down on him, shaking Harry to the core and bringing more pain to his head. He struggled, violently, ignoring the pain. "Shhh." He heard a soothing sound come from the same direction as he had heard Malfoy. "It's alright then, you'll be okay." He tried to climb to his feet, and felt a sudden blast hit him, as all of his emotions drained from him. Harry recognized the effects of a Draught of Peace.

More powerful than a calming draught, the Draught of Peace destroyed the ability to panic. That however meant that he knew he _had_ been panicking and for a reason. The reason becoming clear enough to him—he was in danger—he began to try and rationalize a way out as his body calmed. "Harry," Malfoy whispered. "Come back inside, please, I don't even know what you've done to yourself."

Harry was lying on cement in the parking lot, with a small crowd around Draco, staring worriedly, or sometimes fearfully at him. Red rushed through his bruised body, as he blushed and realized how much pain he was actually in. "Can't," he finally admitted. "Dunno what happened… how I got here."

With a sigh, Draco glanced around the crowd. Trust Potter to not remember how he made a huge scene. But then again, few people remembered everything about a panic attack, and this seemed to have been a bad one. "You had a panic attack, Harry," Draco said, reassuringly. "Threw yourself out of bed and managed to get to the door before I got out of the bathroom, but you tripped over yourself before you got far."

A noise made Draco jump, his eyes scanning the area as he lifted Harry from the ground. Harry was still red, crying out in pain. It was not unlike the sound of mermish above land. Draco carried Potter back into the room, setting him on his bed. "What is that infernal noise?" Through what sounded like sobs as well as grunts and half-screams, Potter got a sentence out of his mouth.

"The muggle equivalent of Aurors."

_Shit. _Draco scrambled for a drawer and removed a blank bit of parchment from it. "This is enchanted to convince anyone like that that nothing is wrong. It'll work." A vehicle like those he had passed on the street pulled up, red and blue lights flashing in the dim morning. Draco waited, door still open and watched as a couple of the other muggles amassed pointed toward him and the door to the vehicle opened. A man stepped out, with a black uniform of sorts on. He approached carefully, hand on a dark solid stick at his side that Draco was sure was no wand.

"Can you step out here, sir?"

Politeness, however forced. Draco could relate to that. It was time to put on a bit of acting and hope Potter didn't blow it. Searching for scenarios as he stepped out, his mind chose one at random that didn't seem so bad to him at the time. "We got a report of a lot of screaming and a pretty battered looking kid about your age laying in the parking lot. What was all of that about?"

Draco cleared his throat and allowed his face to go wishy-washy with worry. Manipulation, sure. "It's just my—" hesitation, and the first word that jumped to his mouth "boyfriend, sir. He's had such a rough time lately. It was a panic attack, maybe night terrors, he was in bed when I got into the shower, and I came out and found him running outside." The man seemed suddenly and inexplicably put off. Well that was to be expected, maybe muggles had the same disdain for two people of the same sex being together that most of the wizarding world did.

"What do you mean, a hard time."

"His uncle sir," Draco intoned, leaning forward. "Very big, very violent." He could hear Harry groan in protest from inside the room.

"I'd like to speak to him, if you don't mind?" the man inquired, gruffly, as if resigned to something. Draco stepped aside after a moment of panic. Let it happen, get it over with. The policeman stepped inside and Draco followed.

"Hello, son," the muggle said. "Did you hear all of that?" Potter managed to nod as he attempted to hold still. "Was it all true?"

"Yes," Potter coughed out. "I'm sorry. I just..."

The man held a hand up to silence the boy and turned to Draco. "Now we have to deal with this. There are two underage kids staying in a hotel room with no sign of a guardian around them, and the hotel tells me you have it booked for a couple of weeks at least." Draco nodded. "And the fact that this is an abuse victim suggests you've helped him run away from home, a crime, if you didn't know."

"Oh no," Draco chimed, as if hurt by the accusation. He held out the blank parchment. "It's all right here, all the proper papers." There was a moment as the man stared and went glassy eyed that Draco almost vomited. It reminded him so much of an Imperious victim, that he felt ill.

"Alright, it all checks out here," the man announced, handing Draco the papers back like they were a piece of filth he had to be rid of immediately. "You boys try to keep it down."

The cop turned and nearly _ran_ from the room, muttering as he closed the door. "Bloody queers." Draco couldn't help but spit at the man's heels as the door shut. When he turned to Potter to check on him, the Gryffindor was unconscious. Draco fell into a sitting position on his bed. When that infernal… blasted Dumbledore had assigned him a mission as an inductee into the Order—chosen only because it was better than the Death Eaters as he could get out when he wanted—he hadn't foreseen any of this. Maybe Dumbledore wasn't as all knowing as people claimed.

Or maybe he was and once again, he just hadn't given a damn. Draco shook the thoughts away harshly. His past and his present were necessary to keep apart, and right now, he had to find a way to get Potter travel ready. He wandered over to his trunk and opened it, taking stock.

_Three doses of blood replenishing potion. _

_One vial that once contained Draught of Peace. _

_A second Draught of Peace. _

_Two more vials of pain potion and the one Potter has on his bedside table. _

_Ten vials of Dreamless Sleep potion. _

_Two doses of potion to stave off hunger, should the situation get bad._

_My cauldron and a ton of potions supplies, enchanted to be light weight._

_My wand, obviously. _

_A pair of warded robes. _

_The large amount of muggle money the order had given him. _

_Two owls and owl treats. _

_Tons of parchment and quills. _

_Any abilities I could call as rightful Malfoy heir and current head of the Malfoy family. _

_No potions to help me heal Potter's wounds. Why not? Did they just not think, or did they think he'd be unwounded? Why would anyone ever assume that about Potter, who's been getting wounded since first year? _

He was beginning to think Snape and Dumbledore were actually… morons.

Draco groaned as he slammed the lid and wandered back over to his bed, falling down on it. He had to think. He had been instructed, of course to hide Potter away until someone had come to find him. Sighing, Draco leaned back. The two of them needed food, more than anything else.

"Was it your father?"

The voice was a whisper, and Draco turned to Harry.

"None of that now," Draco replied, trying to block his own emotions from leaking into his voice, and having success thanks to the icy walls. "Maybe some time, not right now. But if you're awake… you can explain muggle money to me so I can buy us food."

Now that was one discussion he never thought he'd have with Potter.

About an hour later found Draco Malfoy of all people, walking into a nearby muggle supermarket in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt provided by the Order. Of course, muggleborns had brought jeans into the wizarding world's market, but his father had never given him a pair, as it was something no self-respecting pureblood family would ever be seen buying.

They felt unfamiliar to him, but at the same time, he could tell why people wore them. Comfort but they seemed strong enough to have some minor degree of sturdiness.

Of course, he was now doing something else no Pureblood would ever do. He was in a muggle store, buying muggle food. Some food, wizards too enjoyed, but other things, he hadn't even heard of. For instance… what in the world was spam and why had Potter warned him away from it so violently? With the help of the small icebox in their room—it run off of some muggle power source, and not magic—they could keep some meat cool, and Potter had admitted to craving a "Sand Witch," when he had had Draco make a list.

He found the bread in one isle, already cut into thin slices inside of the bag. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, but let it go as he placed it into the metal cart. Bread. Check.

Tylenol was next, and this was what he was looking more forward to. Potter said it would help hold off his pain. Finding the "medicine" isle, he looked closely at all of the small boxes until he found two labelled "Extra Strength Tylenol." Without a second thought he tossed them into the cart and went back into the deli, ordering two pounds of shaved ham—for the 'Sand Witches'—and then continued gathering other smaller things needing cooling. Pickles, sardines—why the boy would like sardines was beyond him—and the like.

Confusing as it was, Draco thought he'd managed pretty well, and only managed not to be able to find one thing on the list. Something called a hotplate, he knew it was supposed to go with the pot and this box of noodle packages he'd bought, but he didn't know where to find it or what it looked like.

And so Draco did something else Malfoys just weren't supposed to do. He asked for help.


	5. Chapter 5: I am not my father

Disclaimer: I don't own this.

A/N: The events Officer Fishers mentions about his past and the alley are in _fact _canon. As is Fisher. He and the event mentioned in the later part of the chapter, are part of an 800 word prequel J.K. Rowling wrote, for charity that details a chase scene that involves first three broomstick riding figures and Sirius and James, and then two cops and Sirius and James. Please google around and read it, and please, please don't let me get any flames telling me I'm full of shit. I just read it today, and it made for an EXCELLENT plot piece. Something to shake Harry up on top of the other things.

--

Harry groaned in irritation. He was propped up against the headboard of the bed, wiping sweat from his face. Running his hand over thin stubble, he found his hand suitably wet. It was rather warm in the room. That was the least of his worries, though. Everything that had been going through his head before he'd passed out and then woke to that strange, surreal and dreamlike conversation with Malfoy—he couldn't believe Malfoy was walking through a muggle store right now and not hexing everyone in sight, surely there would be missing people—came back.

Moreover, the potion's effects seemed to be wearing off too soon, and everything was crashing in on him. He figured it was a side effect of having no magic. Nervously, Harry felt a shudder go through him. There was a knock on the door, and the doorknob jingled. Three knocks was Malfoy's signal. This wasn't Malfoy. "Open up!" someone called. Pausing an inordinate amount of time, this person added "Quick!"

"Who is it?"

"Just open," another odd pause, "and fast!"

He realized that he recognized that pattern of speech. This wasn't one person, but two. The twins. "Fred, George?" he called calmly.

"Right in one, Harry," one of them answered.

"You two are supposed to be in Africa," he responded.

"Mum, Dad and the others went. We stayed behind for our shop, now let us in, Dumbledore sent us!" Harry scooted to the edge and manoeuvred into a standing position, the dead, slender rod in his hand reminding him with each passing second just how weak he was.

"Prove it's you!"

"We solemnly swear—"

"We're not here to kill you!"

Harry shook his head. "Not enough, anyone could have gotten that from torturing Remus, or from Wormtail. Not enough, don't trust you."

"Oh for Merlin's sake, he's gone 'round the bend, Fred."

"I agree, George," the second voice answered. "_Alohomora_."

There was a clicking sound and Harry heard the door unlock, and thrust forward. Heart beating wildly, Harry dropped—despite his pain—into a duelling stance. Sure enough, to his relief, there were two redheaded forms in the doorway. "Harry," started one.

"You look like crap," finished another, and Harry figured it was supposed to be Fred.

After a pause the two launched into an explanation in perfect twinspeak. Nothing could have faked that but a mental link of sorts. These were definitely the Weasley twins. Harry found and quickly buried an embarrassing urge to hug the closest one, even though they said they had come from Dumbledore to take him to Mungos.

"Word has it you've got a roommate."

"A pretentious pureblooded one."

Harry nodded. "Don't know what to think about that."

Then he shook his head. This was needed, he could tell these people. Fred and George wouldn't turn on him because he was a Squib… they could help him get the hell out of here. Headquarters would be safer than this place. Anywhere would be safer than here in the middle of nowhere.

"Guys…" he trailed, trying to figure out exactly what all he wanted to say.

"What is it, Harry?" Fred asked, looking suddenly worried. Perhaps he saw the worry on Harry's face.

"Who's in here?" roared a voice.

Draco had hurried into the room when he heard a voice that wasn't Harry's, wand drawn. The sight of the Weasley twins sent a shiver up his spine. "You two morons need to shut the door. Were you born in a barn?"

"Still with the poor jokes," Fred said with a sigh, looking toward George. "He's not very creative still, is he?"

"No Fred, but at least he's not as _much_ as a prat anymore."

"That's not what I—" Draco flushed.

"We know," George said, glancing over his shoulder. "So misunderstood."

"Poor little rich boy," Fred reached out as if to pat Draco on the head. The blonde reacted, slapping the hand away.

"Malfoy really _is_ different than everyone thought," George added, looking at Harry. "Why he even has a—"

"Decent sense of humour," Fred finished.

"Most of the time."

"Enough," Draco growled, slamming the door. "What's the plan?"

"We're going to Mungo's." Fred said, pulling a stone from his pocket.

"Wait, what were you about to say, Harry?" George queried, holding up a hand. Silence spread throughout the next moment. Harry got up the courage. He had Fred and George with him, he knew he could trust them. They might even get him away from here.

"I'm… not a wizard."

Silence spread throughout the room.

"You're trying to tell us you're a girl?" Fred said, with a look on his face like Christmas dad, and a thousand and one jokes visible in the mirth of his eyes. Painful mirth.

"No, I mean…" Harry stood and whirled his wand around, aiming at the muggle television with his wand and flourished the wand. "_Reducto! Diffindo! Incendio!_"

Stunned silence. "A joke wand?" Fred said, taking it from Harry's shaking and slack hand. "Surely, that's got to—" Harry saw Fred's face as he realized the wand was very real.

"Malfoy would've seen it for himself if he hadn't thrown his robes at my wand when I pretended to cast."

"What was your plan, Potter? Shock me into freezing so you could run?"

"Pretty much," Harry admitted quietly, now incredibly jumpy.

"Why didn't you tell me this morning?"

"Are you kidding me?" Harry asked, feeling anger build up. He realized now that he was wheezing in pain with short bursts of breath. "Tell _you_?"

"What does that mean?" the blonde asked, advancing slightly, irritated.

"I'm already a halfblood, Malfoy. If I told you I was a Squib with no one else around, you'd have no problem killing me or turning me over."

Fred and George shared a look. Harry saw not agreement, nor understanding, and barely any worry. Instead, they looked as if they were embarrassed for him. "Bang out of line, mate," George muttered.

"Is that really what you think, Potter?" There was cold. For the first time ever, Harry could hear Draco's father in his voice. Lucius Malfoy had spoken with a cool contempt most of the time Harry had been near him. Draco was doing the same, his face perfectly blank.

Harry was reeling a bit, and gathered his anger. Fred and George were _actually _on Malfoy's side? "Darn right! You were the one hailing the Heir of Slytherin a hero in second year. What was it you said? 'Last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood _died_. So I bet it's only a matter of time before one of them's killed this time… I hope it's Granger,' You said that, Malfoy. I know you did. What else? Oh yeah, you were wishing you could help out Slytherin's Heir, if I recall correctly."

Fred raised an eyebrow, but didn't seem to be sympathetic to Harry's side. Malfoy, on the other hand, pulled back as if punched. "How did you hear that? When? Where?"

Harry pressed harder. "How about, 'Father's always said Dumbledore's the worst thing that's ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-borns. A decent Headmaster would never've let slime like that Creevey in.' Or maybe, 'Saint Potter, the Mudbloods' friend, he's another one with no proper wizard feeling.'"

"How in the name of Merlin did you hear that?" Malfoy stepped forward, angry now, wand drawn.

Breathing deeply, Harry went for the final blow, hoping to shut Malfoy up. "'You'd never know the Weasleys were pure-bloods, the way they behave.' You have such a high and mighty opinion of your filthy Death Eaters—"

"_Re_—" the Malfoy heir was cut off as Fred jumped in.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Malfoy's wand went flying.

George, on the other hand, turned his wand on Harry. "_Silencio_!"

"_Incarcerous," _intoned both twins a moment later, turning their wand in perfect symmetry to face the alternate opponent. Harry fell back onto the bed, struggling against tight bonds that squeezed at his ribs and made him scream into the silencing charm.

"Now boys," Fred started, scolding in a scary impression of Mrs. Weasley.

"Behave," George finished, breaking their bonds with a wave of his wand and lifting the silencing charm.

"How," Malfoy growled. "Did you hear that?"

"I was there, sitting on the couch in your common room."

"What?" Then it seemed to click. "Impersonating Crabbe? Goyle?"

"I was Goyle, Ron was Crabbe."

Fred looked at George with a look of glee. "We underestimated our little brother, George. To be sneaking into the Slytherin common."

Draco slumped. He _slumped. _"Potter, I'm—" Another series of knocks came at the door.

"Geeze, can't anyone finish a sentence here," Fred muttered.

"Who is it?" Harry called.

"Police."

Harry sighed.

Two times in what amounted to four or five hours. Fred opened the door, to reveal to Harry the same policeman as before. He was an older gentleman, who looked as if he had once been big in the gut. Gruff with graying hair, he now had something new in his face, recognition. "You," the cop said, leveling a hand at Harry. "I recognize you. Your hairs a little longer than his was…."

"Excuse me officer," Draco started.

"What are you people?" the officer asked, not advancing into the room. "What are you?"

"Come in officer," Harry offered.

"Lay your sticks on the table first. Every one of you." Harry reached into his pocket and retrieved the dead wood. The man reacted. "That's it… he had one of those." Fred and George flourished theirs again for a moment, and watched the way he reacted as if scared. The twins placed theirs on the table. Draco, irritated, kicked the mass of ropes away and placed his own down beside it. They couldn't have the muggle making a scene.

The policeman closed the door behind him as he entered. "We thought we were crazy, you know."

"You've seen a wizard before?" Draco drawled.

"Wizard? That's what you're trying to tell me?" The man looked around the room until his eyes landed on Harry. He seemed oddly focused, oddly violent yet standing still. His very gaze reminded Harry of Vernon enough to send a shiver up his spine, making him wince in pain.

"It's been about eighteen years now, actually. My partner and I were sitting there… waiting for the usual punks to come racing down the road," he looked almost as if he'd swallowed a heavy dose of irony. "And then we saw it. A flash of black, my radar gun showed three hundred miles per hour. That should've been impossible. Whatever the case, this motorbike was going fast. I hit the gas and followed."

Harry's breath hitched. Motorbike?

"What do you think I saw when we got into that alley?"

A shiver ran up the length of his spin. "Dad…"

"Two punks a little older than you sitting on a motorbike… the very one I happen to know is sitting behind the building under a pile of cardboard boxes. I went to check it out when I left here." The man's shaky breath came uneven, and that in and of itself made Harry's do the same. "You know, it was that very alley too. Right behind this motel." Harry ached from a new wound.

"They got up, and started babbling some nonsense… Elvendork—"

"A fine name," Fred and George added. "Unisex, you know."

"That's what they said," snarled the cop. "Started babbling. Then finally told me their names. Long haired punk in leather named Sirius Black, and this smug looking brat who looks… almost identical to you… James Potter."

Harry shuddered as the cop continued to glare with an unnatural intensity. "Instead of coming quietly, they whipped out those… those sticks."

"Wands," Draco growled.

"Fine, wands, right out of their back pockets. These three figures in black, robes of some sort, were coming at us. And what did they do? They threw the car at them, and then bold as can be, flew off. _FLEW _off, on that motorcycle. By the time we got around to looking for the guys, they'd already vanished, though one left this." Reaching into his own back pocket, the man threw down something solid and white.

Harry caught it on reflex and found himself holding the white mask of a Death Eater. Fred was edging toward the table, unbeknownst to the cop. "We've been investigating James Potter and Sirius Black for years, looking for any group using that mask, or for that motorbike. We've got a whole huge case file of sightings. Imagine… _imagine_ our surprise when he showed up on the news one day, a wanted man. This validated it, the decision the higher-ups made not to call us crazy. Not that that stopped my partner."

With an aggressive stomp forward—a single step—the man's eyes managed to show Harry a world of grief. "I went to his house one day a month later and found him sitting on the floor, gibbering and missing three of his limbs, bleeding to death and missing his right eye. Now I want _answers_!"

They had been tracking Death Eaters, then, probably for Dumbledore. Harry shook his head and looked at Fred for help. "We can't, in fact, if anyone outside of this room knew you had these memories, your entire police force would have their memories wiped instantly." George was trying to sound reassuring.

"I want _answers_!"

"You're asking us to break more laws than you could ever imagine," Fred started, as if trying to be reasonable. "In fact, your memories are only intact right now because we're not Obliviators, and we can't get word to the Ministry without giving away our position to people who'd like us all roasted on a spit."

The cop backed up, now noticing that Fred, George and Draco all had their wands. "I'll sound off your position right now, I don't care what papers you have. If I let the press hear that there is a Harry Potter sitting in room ten at the East Breeze, how long will it take, hmm?"

"Those people my father used your car to take out? They're probably the ones who did that to your partner," Harry said, trying to force down his pain.

"They got off on that a lot," Draco added, shivering. "You're… you're sure it was his right eye he was missing?"

The graying officer turned. "You know who did that?"

"Sounds like it must've been… well… _my_ father. But trust me, he's locked up for a long, long time. Got taken in at the start of summer, and I gave them enough evidence against him to put him away for the rest of his life." Harry was watching Malfoy intently, though subconsciously raising the mask.

"Harry!" A silent spell knocked the mask from his hand as George scowled. "Never put on a Death Eater's mask. Who knows what kind of hexes could be on it?"

The cop now turned back to Fred and George.

"You two help me make sense of the conversation that night, or I swear I'll blab your secret to everyone."

The twins looked at each other and then said. "Well then, you leave us no choice."

Fred flourished his wand and muttered, "_Augamenti!_" A spray of water shot from the end of Fred's wand, catching the cop in the face.

When it ended a moment later, he looked dumbfounded. George broke into laughter. "Oh, Merlin, you should've seen the look on your face!"

Growling, the cop turned and moved toward the door. "You haven't seen the last of me!"

George uttered a quick phrase and flashed his wand around. A brief flash of light later, he was grinning smugly.

"Try to say our names, or tell anyone where we are in any way and you just won't be able to remember. You're more than welcome to state that you found the son of one of the men, but he was up to no illegal activities, and what's more…"

"You can close your case," Harry said. "James Potter died three years later, when I was a baby. Sirius Black was sent to prison on charges of killing thirteen muggles and a wizard. When Sirius escaped in my third year, we found out the other wizard had killed the muggles, and betrayed my father, thus why Sirius tried to kill him. Sirius was murdered this last spring." Harry closed his eyes, letting the hair fall over his face. "Died trying to save me. They're both dead."

Dumbfounded, the cop spoke, "Boy, I'm really s—"

"Shut up," Harry called. "What would you have tried to do if you ever found them? Take revenge for your partner? You're not sorry; you would've tried to do it yourself. If you had kept quiet, I bet the Death Eaters would've stuck to tracking down my father. Your partner's dead because _you_ opened a case about it." Quietly, the policeman twisted the door knob and turned, leaving the room in silence.

Officer Fisher would be found dead two days later in his apartment of suicide.

Had Harry even heard, he would've felt little remorse.


End file.
